


Jabberwocky

by Tashilover



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: Body Horror, Creepy pasta - Freeform, Gore, Horror, ghost story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2015-10-20
Packaged: 2018-01-08 01:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 43
Words: 21,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1126518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various short ghost/horror stories for funsies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Jacket

In the depths of my mother's closet, I pulled out a WW2 era bomber jacket. "Oh, that was your great grandfather's jacket," My mom told me. "He died during the war."

I noticed there was a hole, right in the collar. "What's this?" I asked.

"Oh, if I remember correctly, your great grandfather died from a bullet wound. Who knows, maybe he was shot in the neck while wearing that jacket."

I looked around inside the seams. I didn't see any blood. Despite the story, I asked if I could have it and she said yes. The jacket was amazing. The leather was old, but treated well. It was warm and soft, and it had a couple of my great grandfather's patches sewed on.

I had complete strangers coming up to me asking me about it, sometimes offering to buy it from me. I only had the jacket for a week and already people were offering over five hundred dollars for it. I kept declining.

One guy was really insistent though. He kept offering more and more money, getting more and more angry by the second. Though he was offering nearly a thousand dollars, I kept denying him just to spite him. I didn't want my great grandfather's jacket to go to this jerk.

Suddenly, the guy struck out. He grabbed my jacket and ripped it right off my shoulders. He ran off. I gave chase, but he was faster than me, and soon I lost track. I didn't give up though. I kept going, thinking perhaps I'd stumble upon him somehow.

I did. I found the guy dead, slumped against the wall, wearing my bomber jacket. Later when the police came, they told me the guy had died from a single gunshot wound, right in the neck.


	2. The Diary

My diary told the future.

Such a silly thing to believe but it was true. Every so often, when I opened to a new page, an entry I didn't write would be there. It didn't tell of every day events, like what I had for breakfast or the clothes I decided to wear. It only told of significant events.

It predicted the time I was first kissed by my boyfriend.

It predicted the time I had found fifty dollars on the ground.

It even predicted the time I met my favorite celebrity. So every time I opened my diary and noticed a new entry, I trembled with glee. Today was no exception. I flipped to the new page, and when I saw the newly written script, I practically squealed.

 

 

_Dear diary,_

_I killed my family today. I had taken a kitchen knife and I killed them while they slept. I can't tell you why I did it, but they needed to die. THEY NEEDED TO DIE._

 

 

The date for this entry was for tomorrow.


	3. The Barbie Doll

I hated my sister's stupid Barbie dolls. It was bad enough mom kept buying her every accessory under the sun, but my sister had the bad habit of leaving the stupid toys all over the place. In the bathtub, in the middle of the hallway, even in my room. When  _I_  was younger and I left my Legos on the ground, I always got yelled at.

Not my sister though. She could leave those damn dolls in the oven and nobody would say a word to her. There wasn't a day that passed by when I didn't trip over the lousy things.

I was vacuuming the floor when I finally decided I had enough. I ran the vacuum over and over the carpet, kicking away the numerous dolls that were in my way. When I had to pause for the tenth freakin' time, that's when I snapped.

Now, as the older sibling, I suppose I should have had more restraint. In that moment, I didn't care. I pulled out the movable attachment head from the vacuum, went right over to one fallen Barbie doll and sucked it up. "Take that, you stupid toy."

I looked over to the main container of the vacuum with cruel glee, expecting to see plastic bits flying around.

Instead, all I saw was red.

My mouth dropped. Immediately I scrambled over and turned off the vacuum. The noise died down, and as I stared into the container of the vacuum, that's when I noticed the red was dripping off the sides.

I pulled out the container. I looked inside.

In between the fluffs of hair and dirt, I saw guts. Bone. A severed foot. An amputated leg. All miniaturize, all dripping with blood. And staring up at me, with mouth wide opened and one eye blown, was the Barbie doll head.


	4. The Water Main

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Cannibalism for this chapter

The urban legend was true. People do kill themselves by climbing into the water main of a hotel and drowning themselves. Apparently there's like, ten accounts of it each year in America alone.

But it was not the suicide that disturbed people. It's the idea that you could be washing or drinking dead person water. Health risks aside, it was a pretty horrible thing to think of.

I'd know. It happened to me. For two days, before they pulled the bloated, dead body of a woman from the hotel's water source,  _I drank her_. I  _bathed_  in her. I  _washed_  my hands in her.

When I found out, it didn't freak me out as much as other people did. As long as I didn't think of it, it didn't bother me.

I did have to admit, it had changed me. My sense of taste at least. For a good month after learning I'd been drinking in a dead person, everything I've eaten tasted... off. Pizza, hamburgers, salads... all my favorite food suddenly tasted weird to me. Was something wrong with my tongue?

Then... out of curiosity, I pricked my finger.

Just enough to gather a dab of blood. I then smeared the droplet of blood across a piece of pasta. I considered the red stained macaroni, shrugged, and ate it.

It was  _delicious_.


	5. The Dog

I kept my door opened at night to let my dog, Max, in. I preferred to keep my door closed, to bask in the darkness and silence. But if Max wanted in, he would slam his paw against the door hard enough to jolt me out of sleep.

As I laid in my bed, half-dozing, I felt Max climb into my bed. He settled comfortably next to me, against my back. Sleepily I reached over and petted his furry, fuzzy face.

He started whining. Max never whined.

Frowning, I opened my eyes to see what was wrong.

Max was by the open door, his ears back, tail between his legs. He was shaking all over.

I stopped moving my hand. I felt the thing in my bed  _grin_  against my palm, before licking it with its long, thin tongue.


	6. The Locker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Extreme bullying.

Do high schools really have lockers big enough to fit a person in it? From my experience, most school lockers were only about the size of a large shoe box. Big enough to put a few books inside, but that was about it.

So when the school bully Jared, grabbed me by the hem of my hoodie and hauled me towards my locker, telling me he was going to stuff me inside, I snorted.

"You stupid idiot!" I snapped at him. "What do you think this is,  _Breakfast Club_? I can barely fit my damn history book in there!"

Jared opened my locker. He threw out my notebooks, my hat, my extra pencils, emptying the space. He inspected the locker, and with a nod, said, "Yup, you'll fit just fine."

I tried to pull away. He held strong. "Are you insane? Are-"

Jared then pulled out a knife. Long and jagged and clearly well used.

"I said you'll fit," Jared said, his eyes gleaming. "I just didn't say you'll fit in  _one piece_."


	7. The Head

I wore scarves because I liked them. I liked the way they looked, the way they felt against my neck. I'd admit I wore them too often, so often people forgot I even  _had_  a neck, but it as part of my fashion. It was a part of  _me_.

"Can I see what you look like, without your scarf?"

Jason was adorably cute. This was only our second date and I liked him a lot. "Why?"

He giggled. "Well, have you heard of that horror story? I think it was written by Washington Irving. Anyways, it's about a woman who wore scarves all the time because in reality, her head had been chopped off, and the moment she took off her scarf, her head rolled off."

Morbid. "So you think my head will roll off if I took off my scarf?"

Jason shrugged good naturally.

"Okay," I said, reaching up to my neck. I unrolled the scarf from around my neck, pulled it off dramatically, giving it a final flick as it came off. I lifted my chin, proudly displaying my long neck.

Jason's face fell. "Oh."

"Oh?"

"Sorry," he apologized in the same disappointing tone. "It's just... I thought you'd be like me."

His hands suddenly went up, grabbed the top of his head, and pulled-

-and off popped his head.

I started screaming. Jason's body collapsed to the floor. His hands were still around his head.


	8. The Bus

To add hours onto my college application, I decided to volunteer at the hospital. My work was nothing fancy or particularly challenging. I cleaned, sometimes I read to the kids or the elderly. I ran messages, I gave directions. I only volunteered for a few hours at a time, hoping it'll be enough to look fancy on the application.

There was a particular bus I saw every day, at four, right around the time I got off. Usually I wouldn't give any thought to a bus, but the usual buses that came to the hospital stop were all painted blue. This four o'clock bus was gray.

Different color, no reason to make a big deal out of it. It just stood out from the others, that's all.

So when I got off of duty one day, and I walked across the hospital parking lot to get to my car, I casually looked over to see that odd gray bus.

And I saw a patient get on.

I knew it was a patient because nobody gets on a fucking bus wearing a  _hospital gown._  I heard of cases like these, of people trying to escape hospitals because they were delirious or hallucinating. When I saw the bus pull away from the curb, my mouth dropped in surprise (why wasn't the bus driver stopping him?!). I ran back to the hospital to tell someone.

Four hours later, the hospital decreed all the patients were accounted for. The 'patient' I saw was probably just some woman in dress with a similar pattern of a hospital gown.

That pissed me off. I knew what I saw.

That next day, I waited for that damn bus.

It came, at the time I knew it would, and I climbed right on. I sneered at the bus driver, some guy who looked older than my grandfather, as I dropped in my change. The bus surprisingly was pretty sparse, and I took a window seat near the back. The bus sat idly, waiting for any other passengers to get on.

A few seconds later, one did. Another patient in a hospital gown. Just as I got up, the door closed and the bus pulled away from the curb. I went to confront the patient. "Hey, excuse me! What are you doing leaving the hospital?"

The woman looked up at me.

My mouth dropped. "Mrs. Goldberg?"

Mrs. Goldberg had  _died_  this morning from complications due to her heart surgery. I remembered because her husband had collapsed in the middle of the hallway, wailing her name for fifteen minutes.

I moved away from her. Mrs. Goldberg turned her head away, her face expressionless, staring straight ahead.

That's when I started noticing, really noticing the other passengers on the bus. There was a man with a bloody hole in his forehead. There was a teenager with bruises around his neck. And the last passenger was an older woman, ancient and frail.

I ran to the bus driver. "Excuse me, I need to get off. Please, let me get off!"

The bus driver ignored me. He kept on going, straight on the road ahead, to an unknown destination.


	9. The Bookmark

"Now, when before you discharge the books, you gotta check 'em first," said Anna, demonstrating. "You open the front cover, the back cover, then casually flip them like this. See? You look for water damage, doodles, ripped pages and such. Sometimes patrons also leave their bookmarks inside. You'd be surprised by what we find."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "Like what?"

"Most of the time its scratch pieces of paper. Other times it's library cards. Photographs.  _Money_. Personalized bookmarks. The pieces of paper you can throw away. The other stuff we keep, put it in the lost and found."

"Alright," I said.

"Good. Now here's a few books, discharge them."

Anna handed me over a couple of adult novels and I did what she told me. I inspected the books, front to back, looking for anything unusual. I discharged them, then put them aside to be placed back on the library shelves. Anna watched, nodding her head in approval.

On the fourth book, in the middle of a James Patterson novel, I found someone's bookmark. "See?" Anna said as I took it out. "I told ya."

It was one of those Poloroid pictures. The picture was facing down, and I flipped the glossy over to see what it was a photo of.

It was a photograph of a man with his torso ripped open. His intestines were hanging out, his ribs broken, and the bloody paw prints surrounding him suggested he was attacked by an animal. The cut across his throat suggested otherwise.

I stared wordlessly at the picture, unable to move or speak. Anna looked over, then casually plucked the photo out of my hand. "Yeah, these we have to keep."

Anna opened the drawer to the lost and found, and dropped the photo on top of others. Before she closed it, I saw other photos depicted other such scenes, more gruesome than the last.


	10. The Juggler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Suicide

My brother David was a championship juggler. To the average person, that did not sound very cool or inspiring, but those morons have never seen my brother juggle.

For his shows, he always started out small. First he'd juggle just three balls, simply to demonstrate his skill. He'd then juggle with one hand, then with other, alternating between the two while tossing the balls behind his back or in between his legs.

After he was done with the balls, he started on more heavier, complicated things. Bowling pins. Glass figurines. Flaming sticks. His best trick was always saved for the last.

"And for my final juggle," David said dramatically. " _Chainsaws_!"

The crowed cheered as his assistants started up the chainsaws, revving them loudly to show they were indeed, real. I knew they were real. As nervous as I always was when David got to this trick, I had enough confidence he'll pull it off perfectly like always.

He started off slow, tossing the chainsaws without any real speed or special maneuvers. I braced myself for his next bit, when he tosses all three way above his head, and catches them casually as they fell to earth one after the other.

With strength behind his throw, David tossed the chainsaws high into the air, one right after the other.

Then for no reason I could have foreseen, David dropped his hands.

He was still looking up, smiling like he always did during his shows, when the first chainsaw cut through his face. The second chainsaw went through his shoulder, severing his arm, and just before his body hit the ground, the last chainsaw embedded itself into his back.

My hands were still poised to clap as the crowd started screaming.


	11. The Man

There was a man who stood in the corner of my room.

He did nothing, said nothing, except stand that corner all day and all night. He looked to be seventy years old, with gray, thinning hair, bony wrists, wrinkled skin, and dull eyes. He wore a black suit with a tie that did not match. His head was always tossed back, mouth gaped opened, making his face look longer and thinner than it was.

His eyes though, they were always staring at me. No matter what I did in my room, where I did it, his eyes were locked on me. I took to changing in the bathroom.

Of course I told my parents about this. But they thought I was simply rebelling against their divorce. After all, I was the only one who could see this man. I was too old for imaginary friends, they said. Like I'd imagine him.

Once the divorce was finalize two months later, my mother moved out. Taking her place in the master bedroom was my dad's mistress, the woman who was at fault for the whole thing. I hated her.

Strange though, the man was finally gone from my corner. After months and months of his presence, he was just left? I was so surprised by his absence, I wondered where he'd gone to. After all the drama that happened recently, he was the only constant in my life. At least he'd never lied to me, never betrayed me.

"Kendra!" My dad's mistress suddenly ran into my room, her eyes wide with fear. She pointed. "There's a man in the corner of my room!"

I blinked. Then smiled. "What man?" I asked sweetly.


	12. The Bed

I saw my sister get pulled under the bed.

I had walked into the room just in time to watch as she disappeared. Her arms were stretched out, fingers scrabbling against the carpet, desperate to find something to latch onto. She saw me, and had just enough breath to yell, "Help me!" right before the thing that had her pulled her in.

I checked under the bed. There was nothing. Besides a forgotten shoe, a dust covered sock, and an old box filled with miscellaneous items, my sister or the thing that took her was nowhere to be seen. The carpet wasn't torn, the wall was solid, there wasn't even a drop of blood. As I stood up and the realization my sister was well and truly gone settled on me, I had but one thought in my head:

_Finally, I have the whole room to myself._


	13. The Child

There was a child staring into my room when I woke up this morning.

He was such a pretty child too. Shiny blond hair, giant blue eyes, fat, chubby cheeks, and when he saw me noticing him, he grinned, showing off his missing teeth. He ran away a second later, giggling wildly.

I sat in my bed, my knees pulled up to my chest, shaking in fear.

My bedroom sat on the second floor.


	14. The Tree

When I was fourteen I killed my father.

I wished I could say it was because he was touching me, abusing me, smacking me around like I was his own personal boxing bag. But no, he was a kind, gentle man. I killed him because I wanted to. I wanted to know what it felt like.

I buried him in the yard. Earlier, I had purchased a tree to plant on top of his grave, as not to cause suspicion of the sudden dirt mound. The police came and went, never suspecting of foul play. They thought my father ran off with another woman. My mother was pretty upset with the idea. Eventually we moved away, and the last thing I saw of the house as we pulled away was the sapling tree growing over my father's grave.

I didn't go back to my childhood home until was I was sixty-three.

The house had been demolished long ago, but the land was still under my name. The city council wanted permission to plow down the remaining trees so they could build a parking lot. Though a part of me was worried they would find my father's body, I had to remind myself it had been over thirty years since. All evidence pointing to me would've rotted away by now.

Just to be sure, I watched the construction workers plow the land, knocking over all the remaining trees.

My father's grave marking had grown into a great, thick, strong tree. Probably well nourished by his body. It was almost a shame to knock it down.

The bulldozer slammed against the tree, pushing it gradually, changing the settings as the tree groaned under the assault. The roots began to show, popping out of the ground, throwing up chunks of dirt.

The tree groaned, and a sharp, jagged crack slowly grew down the middle of the trunk, splitting the wood in half.

"Hey!" One of the workers yelled over the noise. He waved to the bulldozer to stop. "What the fuck is that?"

A red liquid started gushing out of the crack, dribbling to the ground. Was it sap?

The trunk of the tree suddenly collapsed, and the still-rotting corpse of my father tumbled out. He looked like he'd barely been decomposing for a week.

The workers started screaming. I stood there, mute, leaning heavily on my cane. My father's bloated, dead eyes stared right at me, as if demanding to know why.


	15. The Scarecrow

"Is it really necessary to have a scarecrow?"

"How else am I suppose to keep the rabbits out of my garden?"

"I dunno. But..."

It was not as if Jason had a corn field he needed to protect from the ravenous hoards of animals laying wait outside of the farm. He had a small, simple vegetable garden in his backyard. He grew tomatoes and lettuce.

Even more, the scarecrow he put up was creepy.

Instead of just putting an old shirt on a stick with a hat, Jason had stuffed a pair of pants with straw. He added boots, a stuffed shirt, gloves, an even created a full sized head to go on top. It would've been fine, but Jason decided to draw a face on it too.

Jason was not an artist, that was obvious. He drew the eyes so they were looking down towards the right. He drew eyebrows at such a strange angle they made the scarecrow appear constantly angry. When Jason had tried to draw the mouth, his hand slipped. So instead of a nice, easy-going smile, the scarecrow was giving a half-grin.

Now as Jason propped the scarecrow up on its stick, the damn thing was looking down at me like the common lecherous jerk on the bus.

"Aw," Jason said. "I think he likes you."

I turned away. "Shut up."

 

 

 

 

I felt like the damn thing stared at me when I walked past it every morning on my way to school. I could feel its eyes on my back, boring holes into my skin. I asked Jason to take it down, to replace it with something else.

"But it keeps the rabbits away!" He moaned. "I'm not going to take it down just because you find it a little strange!"

"Then can you turn it so it doesn't face me when I leave the house?"

Jason agreed to that. I physically watched him turn the scarecrow around so its odd grin faced the other neighbors. It was a small win, but I did feel better knowing I didn't have to see it every morning.

However, that next day when I left my house, the fucking scarecrow was in my yard, facing the door.

I nearly had a fit. I should've torn the damn thing down, kick it until was nothing more than a pile of straw at my feet. Instead, I ripped the scarecrow out of my yard, stomped over to Jason's house and threw it in his face when he answered the door. "Do you think this is funny?"

"Wha-? What? Why are you tearing down my scarecrow?"

"You placed it my yard! You're lucky I didn't set it on fire!"

"I didn't place it in your yard!"

"Well, somebody did!"

After that screaming match, I didn't see Jason for three days.

I thought he was avoiding me, either out of anger or guilt. But as the fourth day of his absence from school came and went, I started to worry. Was he sick?

At least the scarecrow was not in the garden anymore. The only downside to it as I passed Jason's precious garden, I saw rabbits had gotten to all of his vegetables. The lettuce had been torn to shreds.

I rung the doorbell and stepped back to wait for someone to answer. Someone did, but it wasn't Jason or his parents.

It was the scarecrow. Wearing a Jason-suit.

It kept trying to adjust the bloody, loose skin over its face, but it just didn't fit right. It was like a cheap Halloween mask that hanged and dangled and drooped at the wrong angles. A single angry eye stared out of one of Jason's eye-holes, right at me.

It raised an arm and presented a bouquet of flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an old scarecrow story I read as a child. In it, three farmers made a scarecrow, but two of them kept harassing it, like shoving pies into its face. Then one day the scarecrow came alive and started moving around the house. The third farmer decided to leave. The other two decided to stay.
> 
> The story ends with the third farmer, from a safe distance, taking a look back at the farm house through a pair of binoculars. He sees the scarecrow laying out the other farmers' skin on the roof for it to dry.


	16. The Call

My phone started ringing.

The noise actually got a number of people to look at me. They probably had the same thought I had. Right now, the train I was on was going through five miles worth of tunnels. All phone signals cut out just a few feet before we enter the tunnels. How I was able to get a call through fifty feet of concrete and earth was a miracle.

I pulled out my phone, still ringing. I didn't recognize the number. "Wow," one guy said, impressed. "What model do you have?"

I told him, but this is the first time my phone has ever done this. I couldn't afford the 4-G models. Finally, I decided to answer it. "Hello?"

On the other side of the line, all I heard was space. Like I was standing in an open field and hearing nothing but the wind and world around me.

That's when the screaming started.

Not one voice, but _millions_ of them, on top of each other. Women and men, children too, all screaming in horror and misery. They were all begging to be saved, for it to stop, asking for forgiveness.

Behind the screaming were other noises. Grinding noises, sounds of ripping, tearing, sounds of metal scraping across each other. There was also _laughter_ , barking laughter erupting from unholy mouths of jagged teeth and blood covered lips. They spoke a language I could not understand, I didn't want to understand, only reserved to those who were destined to be in that place for all eternity.

The man who asked me about my phone suddenly slapped it out of my hand. My phone fell to the ground, and the screaming coming from ten million condemned souls was suddenly ceased as the man stomped down on my phone.

He kept smashing his foot over and over on it till it was nothing more than a pile of broken plastic on the ground.


	17. The Muse

 

It was like clockwork. If writing a novel was like clockwork. But it happened too often to be coincidence. As soon as I opened a word document on my computer, the bird came.

It was such a tiny little thing too. I did not recognize the species. It was light brown, with black tipped feathers. It had a long, pale yellow beak, black beady eyes, and it was missing one of its toes on the right foot. I theorized it must see me through the window every time I sat down to write.

Thinking it wanted to be fed, I left bits of bread outside on the window still. The bird ignored this. I then tried actual seed, but the bird ignored this too. When it came, it just stood there, staring at me with its black eyes. "My little muse," I had dubbed it lovingly. "Will you inspire me?"

During the month of April, writer's block had hit me hard. Though I did my best to keep going, even doing the simplest of writing prompts left me high and dry. I groaned, staring mournfully at my blank, open document. I looked over at my window, to the little bird outside. "Little muse," I said. "I need help."

The bird cocked its head, then flew away.

Sometimes the bird stayed for the whole hour, sometimes it didn't. It flying away prematurely was a common occurrence, but the sudden absence made me feel worse. Now I was unmotivated AND lonely.

Five minutes later the bird came back.

It dropped something there on the window still. At first I thought it was a cigarette. I took a closer look, nearly pressing my face against the glass. It wasn't a cigarette. It was a severed human finger.

It was a woman's finger. The bright red nail polish gave it away. And it wasn't taken from a corpse- fresh blood was still seeping slowly out of the stump, spreading across the still.

The bird looked on expectingly.

"Oh my god," I said, pulling back. "Oh my god, oh... oh… _I know what to write now!"_

"Thank you, little muse!" I exclaimed happily to the bird. I turned my attention back to the screen and started typing away.

The little bird gave out a three note whistle, then began to clean the blood off of its feathers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this story for branwyn on tumblr. Changed some of the wording to keep the narrator gender neutral.


	18. The Birthday Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Extreme stalking.

When I was fifteen, I got a body part in the mail.

No, not a finger or an ear from a captured loved one whom the mafia was trying to make an example out of. On my fifteenth birthday, someone sent me a whole human hand.

There was even a handwritten, cursive note. _Happy Birthday,_ it read. _My love for you is eternal and I wanted to give you a gift that shows my devotion: Myself!_

My parents called the police. They took the hand away and questioned me, my friends, and everyone associated with me. I didn't notice anyone acting weird or odd towards me. I had no idea who would do such a thing.

My name was kept out of the news but the incident made national headlines.

Nobody knew where the hand came from. It was from a man, age between twenty and forty. Nobody reported a recently handless man walking around. A few disabled people had been question but nobody was arrested or seen as a potential suspect.

After a few months the excitement died down. The police never found the person whom the hand belonged to nor the person who sent it. I went on to graduate from high school and left home to go to college.

When I turned twenty, I was sent the other foot.

The note it came with was the same. Once again I was thrusted into a world of crime and this time, my name and face was plastered all over tv. I eventually dropped out of college because the exposure was too much.

When I turned twenty-five, I was sent a leg.

At thirty, the other leg came in the mail.

At thirty-five, an arm.

Nobody knew how this was happening. They all came from the same person, DNA proved that. All the limbs were fresh, so it was not as if this poor bastard had been dead for years. I had nightmares of this poor man, stuck in some hellhole, getting his limbs chopped off every five years by this psychopath. I changed my name, moved, went overseas, and yet despite all that, on my fortieth birthday I was sent the other hand, with arm attached.

The note was slightly different. _I wrote this ahead of time now that I have given you my writing hand. I will love you forever, even if I cannot express it in writing._

On my forty-fifth birthday, a giant box was sent to my front door. Anticipating this, the police were already there, arresting the poor delivery man who had no idea what was going on. The police took the box away. I never saw what was inside.

But I was told a few days later what it did contain.

"It was a limbless torso," said Special FBI Agent Rodriquez, the officer who had been working my case since he was nothing more than a desk jockey. "Along with the head. By the time the package got to your front porch, the body was only dead for a few hours."

"Was there a note?"

"Yes. It's the same crap the bastard had been spouting for years. My love is eternal, blah, blah, blah. He also added on he regrets this would be his last delivery to you."

A sudden weight released from my shoulders. Though I had been given five years intervals between body parts, I long stopped celebrating my birthdays. To me, they were days of burden rather than celebrations. Finally, this poor man's suffering was over. "Oh, thank God..."

Rodriquez shifted uneasily. "There's more," he said. "Along in the box, there was a protected case, holding photographs and videos."

I braced myself for the blow.

"The man in the box was not the victim, he was the perp. The photos and videos shows how he did it."


	19. The Music Box

My little sister had a music box she liked to play with. Every day when I passed her room, I saw her opening the box, look inside, and smile like she had the sun in there. I have asked her many, many times what was inside the box. She always said the same thing:

"My most precious thing in the world."

I called her Gollum for years. She never got the reference.

I was not the type of person to pry so I never took the initiative to look inside the box when my sister wasn't home. If she wanted to show me, she would.

Then shortly after her fourteenth birthday, my sister died from cancer.

I was devastated. For days I did nothing but cry in my room, unable to move or eat. My parents fared no better and mostly they left me alone, too deep in their own grief to help mine.

It would be nearly a month before I could muster the strength to go into my sister's room. Simply walking past it would cause my heart to stop. Now, I believe I could go in without bursting into tears.

As soon as I opened the door, my eyes immediately fell upon the music box. My sister's precious music box. Even now I didn't know what it contained. I placed my hand on top, wondering if I should bury it, leave it as a secret only she knew.

I decided to look inside. It was not as if she hid the box away from prying eyes. I opened it.

Blood drained from my face. I dropped the box.

The music box fell to the floor, where it shattered, scattering the _severed ears_ all over my socked feet and carpet. There were dozens of them, all different sizes, all different colors. Most of them were shriveled, old, and thin, strung together like a macabre necklace. Others were still fresh as the day they were taken.

Among the ears were also a pair of scissors. So much dried blood coated the blades, chunks of it fell off like dandruff.

As I stumbled back, cupping my mouth to keep back the vomit, I realize I never heard reports on people losing their ears. There has been nothing in the news of such an act. So who did these ears belong to, where were these people now, and what kind of person was my fourteen year old sister?


	20. The Empty Field

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Child abuse.

There was an open grass field I passed every day when I walked my dog, Maxy. In a few years this plot of land was going to be bulldozed and turned into another house or local playground, but for now it was full of tall weeds and wild flowers.

It wasn't empty. Every day I saw the same group of kids playing there. There were fifteen of them, all under the age of ten. Sometimes they played football, sometimes they played tag. Never once have I seen a child separated from the group, standing on their own or in twos. Either they all played or all didn't. There was no in betweens.

It was a sweet scene to see while I did my walks. I always smiled when I saw them, enjoying their laughter and energy.

Today as I walked past the field, I saw the same group of kids I always did. Except today something was... different.

They were all huddled in one spot in the center of the field. They were moving, almost like they were dancing in spot.

I had been privy to group beatings back in high school to recognize what this was. These kids were savagely _kicking_ something on the ground.

I quickly tied Maxy to a stop sign, then stomped my way over to them. "Hey!" I cried out to them. At the sound of my voice they stopped moving but didn't turn to face me. "What are you doing?"

None of these kids were tall enough to reach my chest. When they refused to move, I had to push them aside to see what was in the middle of this strange orgy of violence.

I had expected a dog. A cat. I heard of children sometimes killing an animal for fun.

It wasn't an animal. They were attacking a child.

The poor boy was still alive, thank God. He was curled into a fetal position, shaking uncontrollably. His fingers were broken, his light blue shirt streaked with dirt, grass, and blood. His face was bloated, his nose broken, he was bleeding profusely from his mouth.

"Jesus Christ!" I cried out, kneeling down to him. I pulled out my phone, dialing in to call an ambulance. All of the other kids kept staring at me.

"Why did you do this?" I yelled at them.

None of them answered me. They kept staring, unblinking, no remorse or pity on their faces. One little girl had a streak of blood across her cheek.

The moment the dispatcher answered on my phone, the kids suddenly scattered. "HEY! GET BACK HERE, YOU LITTLE BRATS!"

I would later learn the beaten boy had just moved into the neighborhood. He went to the field expecting to make friends. The kids attacked him without provocation.

"Do you know who these children were?" The police asked me.

"I don't know. I see them play here everyday, so I assume the local neighborhood kids."

"That's the problem, they're not local. They're not from this neighborhood. Nobody here knows who these children are."

After that, I never saw those kids again. I continued my walks, keeping an eye out on that empty field. The day a sign was erected to advertise a future parking lot I breathed a sigh of relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based loosely on a real life event. I once walked past a group of fifteen kids, all under the age of ten, and they all suddenly stopped playing to stare at me silently from across the street.


	21. The Phone Call

"Hello?"

_"Hi. Remember me?"_

"Katie? Oh my God..."

_"Yeah. Guess where I am!"_

"Oh god, oh fuck, I'm so sorry! -What? Yeah, it's Katie-"

_"Are you and the others already at the bar? So nice to know my close group of friends noticed my absence."_

"No, no, wait. I'm coming to get you right now. I'm going to my car now. Are you still at the school...?"

 _"The school's_ closed. _Don't even bother coming to get me, I'm nearly home. My feet hurt like a bitch."_

"God, I'm so sorry! Katie, I'm sorry! I guess in all the excitement we... just forgot you."

_"You know what? It's not the fact that you guys left me. It's not the fact that I had to walk all the way home. It's the fact that nobody noticed I was **gone** for nearly a half hour. Jesus Christ, I can't believe..."_

"Katie...? Katie? Katie, can you hear me? You cut off."

_"...there's... there's a man ...on my front porch."_

"A man?"

_"Yeah... He's squatting down in the shadows. I can barely make out his form but I see him."_

"What's he doing?"

_"Nothing. I dunno, he may be homeless."_

"How far away from the house are you? Can you get to a neighbor's place?"

_"About forty feet. I don't think he's noticed me yet. I can probably sneak over to Mr. Riley's house- fuck."_

"What?"

_"He just stood up. He's walking out... fuck, FUCK, he has a knife-"_

"Katie? Katie, what's going on?"

_"HE'S CHASING ME DOWN THE STREET! SHIT, HE'S FAST! I-I-I- CAN'T STOP OR ELSE HE'LL BE ON ME IN A SECOND!"_

"Katie, go to the playground. There are places where you can hide-"

_"I CAN'T SEE HIM. I CAN'T SEE WHAT HE LOOKS LIKE! I CAN HEAR HIM! HE'S GAINING!"_

"Don't stop-"

_"I CAN'T... uh, uh, uh, uh... I'M SLOWING DOWN!"_

"No, please, you have to keep running!"

_"I CAN'T! OH GOD. HE'S RIGHT HERE! HE'S RIGHT BEHIND ME! PLEASE, PLEASE! SOMEONE... SOMEONE SAY GOODBYE TO MY DAD FOR ME!"_

"Katie-!"

_"NO-! HUH! Uh! Nnnnnnnnngh! Ah! UH! UH! AUUUH! HUUUUUUUU! HUH! NNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnn! UGngh! Oh! Nhnhnhnhnghhhh! Hahahahgh! OH GOD! AUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNN! Hnnnngggg-"_

I hung up right there. I stared at my phone for a long moment. Once I ensured I was alone in the parking lot, I put the phone into my pocket, and walked back to the bar.

David looked up as I rejoined the table. "Was Katie mad for us ditching her?"

"Nah," I said, taking a sip of my beer. "She said she got stuff to do."


	22. The Car Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Parental abuse

When we were younger, my parents used to warn my brother Luis and I not to fight while in the car. They didn't like the noise and always kept the radio down to a low level. Most of the time they didn't play the radio at all. Whenever my brother and I started acting up, mom woud turn around in her seat and say, "If you keep this up, you dad and I will throw you out of the car and leave you! That's what happened to your brother, Julian!"

We were kids, so we believed them. I often wondered who Julian was, what he looked like, what he did to be left on the side of the road. For years during our car rides, Luis and I found different ways to keep our silence. We read books, we listened to music, we played card games. Whenever it looked like we were on the edge of an argument, our parents would tell us of our poor brother Julian and we would shut up.

I was now sixteen years old and Luis was fourteen. For our family trip this year, we went down to Arizona to see the Grand Canyon. After, we were suppose to drive all the way to Las Vegas. It was cheaper than flying. Though driving through a desert in the _summer_ was probably not the best ideas.

It was fine. The rented car was new, there was plenty of gas and the air conditioning worked just fine. The only thing that wasn't working were our ipads.

Luis, the dumbshit, forgot to pack the chargers for the ipads. So no music, no games, no books, no movies to play while we drove on this endless desert road. We didn't even get signal out here, so it was not as if I could whittle away the hours texting my friends.

Angry, I leaned over and bopped Luis across the arm.

"OW! Why the hell did you do that for?"

"Because you're an idiot!" I snapped at him. "Can't believe you forgot the chargers, moron."

"Oh, shut up! Like that was suppose to be my job! If you wanted them so damn much, next time, you bring them along!"

"The chargers was YOUR job! I remember to pack the cameras, how hard is it to pack two little cords?"

"Get over yourself!"

"Screw you!"

"Okay, that's enough!" Dad hissed. "If you keep this up, I'll leave you two on the side of the road just like your brother, Julian!"

I rolled my eyes. "I would use my ipad to keep quiet, but WHOOPS, the battery is dead!"

"Just shut up!" Luis spat, reaching over and shoving me. "Get over yourself, bitch!"

"Don't you touch me, you little shit!" I shoved back.

"Fuck you!"

"Fuck you too!"

My dad suddenly wrenched the car sharply to the right, off the road and onto the dry, flat, desert floor. He halted the car, put it in parked, and with the _angriest_ look I have ever seen on his face, he turned around to face us and snarled, "That's it. You two, out."

"Whatever, dad," I huffed, crossing my arms.

"He's not playing," mom said, turning around to do the same. "We warned you and you didn't listen. Now get out of the fucking car."

Luis and I shared a look. For a joke, this was going too far. "What, are you serious?"

My parents unbuckled their seat belts. Luis and I watched in horrified disbelief as they got out of the car, came around to our doors and pulled them open. "Get out," they said again.

This had to be a joke. "What? No-"

Mom suddenly reached in, unbuckled my seat belt, and violently dragged me out of the car. I could hear dad doing the same to Luis, and we were protesting, fighting against them to get back in.

Dad shoved Luis onto the road, mom did the same to me. With our mouths opened, rubbing our arms where they had grabbed us, we watched as they closed the passenger doors, and got back in the car. They engaged the automatic locks.

"No, wait..." I said, going up and tapping against the window. "Okay, we get it! We'll be quiet!"

They started pulling away from the curb. It picked up speed.

"This isn't funny anymore!" I yelled, slapping my palm against the window as I ran with the car. "Stop! What are you doing? STOP!"

They drove on, leaving Luis and I behind. I expected them stop maybe a hundred feet ahead. Just enough to make us learn our lesson. But they drove on, disappearing into the distance. I waited, and there was no sign of them coming back.

"This has to be a joke, right?" Luis asked, coming up next to me. He was already sweating something fierce and we didn't have our phones or any water with us. "We really didn't have a brother named Julian, did we? Did we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of the real life story of my grandparents, who accidentally left my aunt behind at gas stations multiple times.


	23. The Giving Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Gore, sadistic behavior, and misuse of a beloved children story.

_The Giving Tree_ by Shel Silverstein was a story about a tree who loved this little boy. As the boy grew older, the tree offered so much of itself, giving apples, its branches, eventually its trunk, so the boy could be happy. Soon all that was left of the tree was a stump.

Now I have no idea if this was suppose to be just a child story, or a metaphor of something else. A one-sided relationship? Don't give too much of yourself away? Recognize those who take but don't give back?

I really didn't care. In the end it was just a children's story and shouldn't be thought on too much. Though I will admit, every time I passed a tree with its branches missing, with the trunk gone, I wonder if there was a little boy who took everything from it.

I had such a tree in my own back yard. Not an apple tree like in the book, but a great big oak tree. Thick and strong. After reading the book, I was a little more aware of this tree and what I did with it.

If I pulled down the branches, and tore off chunks of it so I could play with it, I would say something like, "I took your stick, tree! Are you happy now?" in a weird, sadistic tone.

I sometimes took a small knife and carved my initials in random spots. "Are you happy? Are ya?"

When my parents weren't looking, I would pee on it, splattering my urine all over the place. "I bet you're super happy now!"

I was a _child_. Don't judge.

The stupidity continued as I got older. Not as often, but it still happened. One of the biggest abuses I inflected on the poor tree was when I was smoking while sitting on one of its branches. I was trying to hide it from my parents, and I accidentally caught a portion of it on fire. Only a small portion though.

Still, stupid teenager me said to the tree after the my dad doused the fire out, "Are you happy?"

When I finally left for college, I only came back home a few times to see my parents. During finals, I didn't call or email my parents for a good three weeks. I was too busy.

Once I was done, I decided to come back home to see them. Perhaps I'll use the time to do some laundry.

I drove up to my house, noticing the giant oak tree in the backyard was gone. After spending twenty-one years seeing that tree looming over my house, it was quite a shock to see it gone. I got out of my car to investigate.

My parents didn't cut it down. They had it pulled out, like a hair. The entire back yard had the earth turned up from where the roots were dragged out. All that was left were a few broken branches and leaves.

I wondered why my parents decided to rid of the tree. Despite it was so near the house, it never gave us problems. I was a little sad knowing it was gone forever. What a shame.

I went inside my house, calling for my dad. "Daaaad! Dad, why is the tree gone?"

No answer. "Mom? Mom, are you here?"

Their car was in the driveway. Did they take a walk?

I went into the kitchen, wanting a Pepsi as I still yelled for them. "Dad! Dad, if you're here you-"

The smell hit me first. The smell of _meat_ left on the counter too long. I gagged and saw what it was. My hand covered my mouth in horror.

Both of my parents were in the kitchen, slumped in their chairs at the table, slowly rotting. My mother was missing her arms, while my dad's legs were gone. It didn't look like they were cut off, but ripped off, like a turkey leg from the body. Both of them were bloated, purple, covered in deep scratches. There was tree sap in their hair. Dry, brown leaves were scattered all over the floor.

On the table was a small note. Scrawled on it, in black _ash_ , were the shakey words, "I'M FINALLY HAPPY."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have NO idea where the fuck this came from. XD


	24. The Thirteenth Floor

 

For years I heard certain hotels would actually refuse to acknowledge the thirtheenth floor because of superstition. That they would actually go as far as relabeling it as the fourteenth floor. I thought that was just a stupid urban legend.

I couldn't exactly prove it though. Most of the hotels I stayed in in my life only reached up to floor seven.

It wasn't until my brother's wedding I finally had a chance to see it for my own eyes. He booked the family in one of the biggest hotels in the city, having twenty-five floors worth of rooms. That rich bastard.

As I took the elevator up to my room on the fifth level, I gleefully noticed the button to the thirteenth floor. Unlike the others, which were worn from repeated pressings, the thirteenth floor button was still so very shiny.

Interesting. Despite this hotel refusing to believe in such nonsense, it seems nobody wanted to stay on that floor. HA.

Once I was done placing my bags and things away in my room, I went back to the elevator. I knew I was getting a bit too giddy over this, but I've been wanting to confirm this legend since I was ten. I was eager, so sue me.

Thankfully when I stepped into the elevator, it was empty. Good, nobody was around to see my immaturity. I pressed the thirteenth floor button and waited patiently as the elevator rumbled and vibrated all around me, moving towards it destination.

There was a small _ding!_ and I stepped out to see if the rugs and furniture were just as new and unused as the button.

I stopped immediately in my tracks.

There was nothing different about this floor that distinguished it from the others. It had the same pattern carpet, the same colors and number of generic paintings on the wall. The elevator opened up to a long hallway, nearly a hundred feet long, and on the other side was another set of elevators for patrons to use.

Except down on that hallway, by the other elevators, was me.

I first I thought it was a mirror because that was definitely _me_ at the end of the hallway. Same clothes, same hair style, and even from this distance, I could see my long, golden necklace catching the light.

I raised my arm. The other me raised her arm.

I waved. She waved.

Just I was about to start dancing in place, just to amuse myself about this very oddly-placed mirror, the reflection reached around to her back. My arm was still up in the air, waving.

I only had a second to think this was all a cosmic coincidence, that two strangers happened to wear the same clothes at the same time, when other-me pulled out a knife from behind her.

She held it up, long enough for me to register how long, and _shiny_ it was. She gripped it tightly in her hand, then suddenly plunged the knife into her own stomach.

I instinctively flinched, curling in on myself, crying out in alarm as other-me pulled out the knife, and plunged it back in, over and over and over again. Red splattered all around her, staining the floor and the yellow shirt we were both wearing.

Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, she looked up and said in _my_ voice,

"DO YOU WANT TO SEE?"

She didn't wait for me to answer. Covered in blood and wailing like a banshee, she started running towards me at full sprint, her red hands outstretched, brushing them against the walls, creating long, dripping, lines.

I didn't bother to wait for the elevator. The emergency stairs were right next to me. I practically body slammed that door open and took three steps at a time, all the way down.

From behind, stopping right outside of the door, I could still hear myself laughing, "DO YOU WANT TO SEE? DO YOU WANT TO SEE?"

I didn't tell anybody what I saw. I didn't know exactly what I saw.

But later on that day, when I was forced to go back to my room, I noticed the thirteenth floor button had changed to the fourteenth floor. It was still so shiny, still so very new and unused, and I was tempted to push it.


	25. The Thirteenth Floor Part B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was how I originally thought the story was suppose to go. But I liked both versions so I wrote both versions. Hee.

 

For years I heard certain hotels would actually refuse to acknowledge the thirtheenth floor because of superstition. That they would actually go as far as relabeling it as the fourteenth floor. I thought that was just a stupid urban legend.

I couldn't exactly prove it though. Most of the hotels I stayed in in my life only reached up to floor seven.

It wasn't until my brother's wedding I finally had a chance to see it for my own eyes. He booked the family in one of the biggest hotels in the city, having twenty-five floors worth of rooms. That rich bastard.

As I took the elevator up to my room on the fifth level, I gleefully noticed the button to the thirteenth floor. Unlike the others, which were worn from repeated pressings, the thirteenth floor button was still so very shiny.

Interesting. Despite this hotel refusing to believe in such nonsense, it seems nobody wanted to stay on that floor. HA.

Once I was done placing my bags and things away in my room, I went back to the elevator. I knew I was getting a bit too giddy over this, but I've been wanting to confirm this legend since I was ten. I was eager, so sue me.

Thankfully when I stepped into the elevator, it was empty. Good, nobody was around to see my immaturity. I pressed the thirteenth floor button and waited patiently as the elevator rumbled and vibrated all around me, moving towards it destination.

There was a small _ding!_ and I stepped out to see if the rugs and furniture were just as new and unused as the button.

I stepped out, looking around. Nothing about this level distinguished it from the others except for the giant sign proclaiming thirteen. It had the same pattern carpet, the same floral wallpaper, the same structured hallway. It was not as if I was expecting blood and gore, but I could admit I was little disappointed by the lack of... evil.

When I spotted the little room that held the vending and ice machines, I decided to have myself a coke. I walked over, digging into my pocket for loose change. I entered the small room, wincing lightly from the loud noise of the ice machine constantly whirring. Noisy thing.

I stood in front of the coke machine, counting out my change, debating what I want.

Something on my left, right outside of the vending area caught my eye. I looked, thinking it was a hotel patron.

I dropped my change.

Standing right in front of the door, staring at me, was this gray-ish, _naked_ man. At least I thought it was a man, he didn't have genitals. He had a bit of a pot belly, though there was no belly button to be seen. His skin was spotted, like he had dozens of acne scars all over his body, discoloring his already gray skin. He was bald, and his lips were pulled back, revealing jagged, sharp teeth.

He opened the door.

I flung myself back, unable to escape. The gray man walked in, and he was breathing through his teeth, every wet inhale sounding like he had a chest infection. He stopped in front of me, and I trembled in fear. A long droplet of drool fell from his mouth.

"Are you done using the machine?"

I gasped. " _What?_ "

"The machine," the man said again. He lifted his long, gray, thin arm, indicating to the ice bucket he was carrying. "I would like to get some ice."

I looked over my shoulder. I had thrown myself against the ice machine.

"Um..." I slid away, removing myself. "Um... N-n-n-no... you can use it."

"Thank you."

I gave him a wide birth as he shuffled forward, sticking his bucket into the slot. I ran for the door.

Just as I sprinted towards the emergency stairs, I heard him yell after me,

"Hey, you forgot your change!"


	26. One-Shots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Series of one/two sentence stories for exercise. Warning for blood, gore, cannibalism and death of children.

My parents shook me hard, demanding where I buried my sister, but that's not how you play hide n' seek.

 

 

When our town was being attacked by a serial killer, I warned my brother against taking his nightly walks. It took me years to see the irony in my own words.

 

 

I hated it when my mother told strangers I had my father's eyes, because then I was forced to tell them why I refuse to donate them.

 

 

When I walked into the kitchen, asking my sister loudly why she would invite everyone she hated to her birthday party, I saw her pour rat poison into the cake batch.

 

 

I once told her I would be cold and dead before wearing that ugly, plaid suit, so I knew I was in big trouble when I saw it laid out for me the day after our anniversary.

 

 

Through the vibrations, I could feel how violently the car drove over the poor man, but when my mother kept driving on, refusing to stop, she turned to me and said in a rather condescending voice, "And that's why you always look both ways before crossing the street."

 

 

When my daughter drew the family, she always colored my hair blonde, and when I asked her why, she said, "Because Daddy told me mommy has blonde hair."

 

 

The killer held the gun to my mother's head, asking her which of her children would live and which would die, and though I'm relieved to know my brother would live on, I was surprised by how quickly my name came tumbling out of her mouth.

 

 

I was told when I found blood on my bed, it was all part of me becoming a woman, but I honestly don't know how the severed foot comes into play.

 

 

"An animal died so you can eat," my father told me, gesturing to my dinner, though at what point did he decide Mr. Wilkins from next door was considered an animal?

 

 

"Hmmm," I mused as I tugged out my knife and stepped away. "So there really is no difference in the screams of children playing and being murdered."

 

 

She started screaming when I gave her the diamond ring she always wanted, but in retrospect, I probably should have removed it from the finger it was attached to.

 

 

"What costume?" The doctor asked, but due to the anesthesia pulling me under, I was unable point out the pale guy wearing the black robe standing right behind him.


	27. The Locked House

My pizza was on its way.

I love online ordering. It's cheaper, it's faster, and with my accent, I could avoid having the employee misunderstand me. I was alone in the house, my roommates gone for the evening to some bar for a football game. It wasn't often I had the whole place to myself and I planned to enjoy it for the next few hours.

The doorbell rang a half hour later, and I got up from the couch, gleefully clapping my hands together. Pizza, pizza, pizza, pizza...

Through the white curtains of the small, thin windows on each side of the door, I could see the outline of the delivery guy. I reached out, undid the lock, and tried to pull it open.

Tried.

The handle was turning, I double-checked that I indeed undid the lock, and yet the door refused to budge. I looked to the delivery man through the window. "Give me a second," I said loudly to be heard through the glass. "Door seems to be stuck."

"No problem."

I continued to battle with my stupid front door. I shoved my shoulder against it, hoping pushing it will nudge it loose. I grunted and tugged and used my whole weight to pull it open. "Damn it," I said, taking a step back. My hand ached from tugging on it so harshly. I went back to the window. "Hey, could you just leave the pizza there on the lawn chair? I'm going have to go through my backdoor. I don't know why this door refuses to open."

"Sure," said the pizza man, turning slightly to his right and placing the pizza down on the white lawn chair on the porch. "Goodnight," he said, then walked back to his car.

I tried to open the door one last time, glaring at it. The lock must be broken or something. Huffing, I walked to the kitchen where the back door was. After shoving on an old pair of shoes and a small jacket, I moved to the door, reached out, undid the lock and-

"Aw, _fuck_ -!" I cried out, tugging fiercely at the handle. When the door refused to move, I kicked it in frustration. "God dammit!"

I whipped out my phone and dialed for my friends.

" _Hello?"_

"Did you guys change the locks or something?"

" _Eh? What?"_

"The locks. The locks on the door. For some strange reason I can't open the doors."

" _What? You mean the front door?"_

"The front and the back. I have my pizza cooling on the lawn chair out front and I can't get to it because the doors refuse to open!"

_"Talk about a fire hazard. But no, we didn't change the locks, why the fuck would we do that? I dunno, maybe the house shifted and... the doors are now stuck at an angle."_

"Oh... well, that kinda makes sense. But I didn't hear it shift and you guys only left less than hour ago. When did this happen?"

" _I don't know. Are you okay? Nothing's on fire?"_

"I'm fine. My pizza is outside, I'm hungry, but I'm fine."

" _Okay. Look, we'll be home in a half hour. If the door is still stuck, we'll call a locksmith or something. In the meantime, keep a window open so if you need to get out, you can."_

"Yeah, okay." I hung up.

I went back to the front of the house, grumbling. All the windows in the house had a bug screen over them, and I didn't want to smash one down just to get out. But my pizza was still out there, mocking me silently on that chair, and I was determined to get it.

I pulled up the blinds to one window, slid the lock out of place, positioned my hands and-

"Oh, what the hell? No, no, no, no!"

The fucking window wouldn't move. Last time we opened them was last week when Julie burnt popcorn in the microwave and we needed to air out the smoke. It didn't take herculean strength to open one of these windows. "God!" I yelled out, nearly popping a blood vessel trying to pull it open. I kept changing my stances, the areas where I placed my hands and nothing happened.

I tried the other windows too, even the ones that had a five foot drop to the ground, right above a thorn bush. All refused to open.

_THE WINDOWS WON'T OPEN. I AM CONSIDERING BREAKING ONE WITH A CHAIR._

I hoped my roommates felt my anger through my text. This was the most ridiculous thing I ever done. Locked in my own house.

I stared at my pizza forlornly, pressing my face to the glass, grimacing with the knowledge it was now probably lukewarm and the nighttime bugs have gotten to it. "Man, what else could go wrong?"

The lights went off.

"That was wasn't a challenge!" I yelled out loud.

None of the other houses on the street lost their power. Either this house needed to be condemned or my friends were playing a crappy joke on me. I stepped back away from the window, debating if I should wait to eat my pizza, or simply sate my appetite with the crackers and peanut butter I had in the pantry. Grabbing an emergency flashlight that hung right next to the door, I trudged towards the kitchen bitterly, one hand on my belly.

I walked past the stairs, hearing nothing but my socked feet padding lightly on the wood, when something big and heavy dropped on the second floor.

Naturally I jumped at the sudden noise, and I took a step back, flashing my light up the stairs. I waited for a few seconds for any further noise. It was probably a book.

I heard steps. Uneven, light tapping steps, like a dog with nails scratching the linoleum. I kept my flashlight up, theorizing one of my roommates brought home a dog and didn't tell us about when it suddenly came into view of my flashlight.

 

 

 

 

 

The pizza delivery man was inconsolable. He was crying so hard he could hardly speak.

"I don't know what happened," he sobbed to the police. "I realized I had forgotten to give the customer their drink, so I went back. When I got there... oh my god, oh my god, there was so much blood... I-I-I was only gone for less than _ten minutes_. The customer had told me the front door was stuck, but I knew something was wrong when I drove up and noticed every window as well as the front door was wide open..."


	28. The Bicycle

Everyone in the neighborhood block knew who Jeremy Jones was. He was a small ten year old boy who loved to ride his red bicycle. Every day around three-thirty he came gliding down the streets, happily pedaling, smiling and waving to everyone he passed by.

His dad had bought him that bicycle from a garage sale and gave it to Jeremy on his eighth birthday. What made the bike so unique it looked like it came from the forties. Every time I saw it, I imagined men in uniforms and women in long, plated skirts.

It also had a bell. RING RING _TING!_

Jeremy always rung that bell when he was coming up behind someone, ready to pass them by. The bell had a small dent on the side, so when he pulled on the little switch, it gave two regular rings, then a high pitch _clank_ of a noise.

RING RING _TING!_

Then on one quiet Autumn day, Jeremy disappeared.

Him and his bike. There was no sign of struggle, there was no ransom note, no eye-witnesses. I told the police I saw Jeremy ride down my street, like he always did around three-thirty, ringing his little bell and laughing. He then turned down Blake Ave, and that was the last anyone ever saw of him.

Not him or his bike were ever found. Police questioned everyone, asking if someone bore ill-will towards the family or if someone suspicious was seen hanging around. Everyone in the whole block knew who Jeremy was and for the life of them could not understand why anyone would do this to him.

A few months later my parents divorced. I packed my bags and left to live with my mother on the other side of the state. I was old enough not to be drawn into a custody battle and chose not to visit my old home. That sounded cruel, but I was starting my life as a young adult and my focus was on elsewhere. Besides, dad visited me enough times.

I didn't return to my childhood home till nearly twenty years later when dad announced he was finally selling the property and retiring down south where it was warmer. I guess I wanted to see the house one last time before someone bulldozed it down to replace it with something better.

As my dad pulled into the driveway, I couldn't help but sigh in amazement at the sight of the old place. I stepped out of the car, taking in the chipping paint and the overgrowth of the climbing vines. Old, forgotten memories washed over me. "Wow, look at that."

"Do you want to get settled in or go eat first?" Dad asked, going to the trunk of the car and pulling out my luggage.

"Let's go eat, I'm starving. Let's just drop off my luggage."

"Right-o. Let me just put this inside."

As he did that, I pulled out my phone to take a quick picture.

RING RING _TING!_

I froze. The familiar bell erupted a million days inside of me, and dropping my arm, I quickly turned around to see. I expected to see another kid on a random bike, or perhaps it was just my imagination playing tricks.

Jeremy Jones, still ten years old, rode on his beloved bicycle past me.

He was smiling his giant, goofy grin, waving as he glided by. I gaped at the sight of him, frozen to the spot.

It was only when I saw he was pedaling down towards Blake Ave I was spurred into action.

"No..." I gasped, dropping my phone. "Jeremy- DON'T!"

My dad called out my name but I ignored him, chasing after Jeremy as fast as my legs could carry me. He already too far ahead for me to catch, and no matter what I yelled at him, he didn't slow.

"JEREMY! DON'T GO DOWN THERE! STOP! STOP! STOP!"

Jeremy turned down Blake Ave, disappearing from view, still ringing his little bell. RING RING _TING!_

I turned down the street only a few seconds later, huffing and puffing, feeling like my lungs were about to burst. Jeremy was nowhere to be seen.

"How...?" I gasped. Even at the speed he was going, I still should've been able to see him. It was a straight, even road. "Wha..."

Dad came up behind me, gasping for breath as well.

"Dad," I said, my brain practically frying. I pointed down the empty street. "That was Jeremy. I saw him. He was there. I saw him."

"I know," my dad said, shaking his head sadly. "Everyone sees him."

"What?"

"It happens every year on the anniversary of his disappearance. He comes down the street, riding his bike, ringing his little bell like nothing has changed, then he turns on Blake Avenue and vanishes. He's been doing this the last twenty years."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. "What? That doesn't... what?"

"Nothing we say or do stops him. It drove his parents _mad_. Every single year they tried to stop him, only to watch him disappear again and again."

I looked back down the street, expecting to see Jeremy. Most of the houses had been replaced over the past twenty years, blurring my memory of this place. The wind blew suddenly, making me shiver, cascading brown leaves down the lonely, empty street.

 

 

 

 

 

A year later, I went back to my old neighborhood to see Jeremy again.

Like dad said, at three-thirty Jeremy came down my block, riding his little red bike in glee. He passed me by, smiling and waving in boyish contentment.

Was this torture for him? To repeat the day of his disappearance over and over? It certainly tortured his parents who was forced to relive this awful day, unable to change or alter it. I didn't ask my dad what happened to them. I didn't want to know.

If this was not a hell, then perhaps it was a heaven? Jeremy, forever young and happy, riding his beloved red bicycle for eternity.

I didn't know what to think. So when Jeremy glided past, waving and grinning, I waved back. His tiny bell echoed out in the empty street.

RING RING _TING!_


	29. The Chase

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Gore and cannibalism.

_Oh god, run. Keep running, don't stop._

The girl was tiring. Every step was a bit more sluggish, every breath a harsh gasp for air. She kept holding her sides, because of a stitch or an old injury, I didn't know. She kept looking behind her, eyes wide and terrified beyond reason. What she saw spurred her on further, giving her a little boost to go faster.

I watched her, wanting her to win, to get away. She was young, like twenty-five or something. Her jeans were worn, and there was a hole in her Led Zeppelin shirt. I wondered if she was a fan or just got the shirt because it fit. New, fresh clothes was so hard to come by these days. It looked nice on her.

She was getting desperate. She needed water and most of the streams around here have been contaminated. Not even the animals wanted to drink out of them. There was a pond near the west of here that was still fresh. I wanted to tell her she was running in the opposite direction.

"HELP ME!" She screamed into the woods. "PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME!"

This was it. Everybody knew you don't scream or else _they_ hear you. But she was tired and she ran out of ammo in her gun a long time ago. She was a terrible shot. "PL-HEA-HE-HE-SE!" She screamed again, so out of breath. "SOMEONE!"

I wanted to cry. I kept begging for someone to show up and help her. I knew there was no one around for miles.

She suddenly stumbled and tripped on uneven ground. She fell hard, arms thrown out to stop her descent, her face splattering into mud. She gave off one last little wail and I prayed that this would be quick for her.

I was on her within a second.

She tried to get back up. I slammed down on top, scrabbling her face, digging my nails into her skin, drawing blood. I drew her head up, exposing her neck, and I bit in deeply, ripping out her flesh.

It tasted terrible. I wanted to stop, to beg for forgiveness, but my body refused to listen. The girl- god, I didn't even know her name- gurgled wetly. Her pretty brown eyes rolled up to the back of her head. I chewed the spongy flesh in my mouth, swallowed and bit down again, ripping out more. The girl was dead and I prayed to god she stayed dead.

 _I'm sorry,_ I wailed on the inside as I bit down again. _I'm so, so sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the show, 'In the Flesh'.


	30. The Bathroom Stalls

It happened every time. Just as the movie was about to start, I needed to pee.

I probably should go see a doctor about my too-excited bladder. I hated having to drop everything I was doing to suddenly run to the toilet. I'd been dying to see this movie since I saw the preview earlier this year and now I was risking missing the first minute of it because my pants were around my ankles.

I ran to the public bathrooms. In this movie theatre, every bathroom had about thirty stalls lined up in a perfect straight line away from the sinks. The first stall was occupied. The door was closed and I could see the person's shoes underneath.

Not wishing to pee next to that person, I walked down past the stalls to give myself some distance. I opened the first door and immediately grimaced. Somebody didn't flush this toilet. I could still see all of their... stuff.

I ducked down a couple more stalls. The second stall I picked was cleaner, though there was toilet paper all over the floor.

I tried the next stall. Pee all over the seat.

I tried the next stall. No toilet paper.

Finally in a fit of frustration, I found myself at the last stall in the bathroom, the furthest away from the sink. Nearly bursting, I gave it a quick check over- toilet paper stocked, clean, no pee- and I closed the door behind me, grunting in response.

Just as I struggled to undo the button on my pants, I heard the person in the first stall finish, flush, then went to go wash their hands. The moment I sat my cheeks down, the person left the bathroom, leaving me alone.

Knowing nobody was going to hear me, I groaned out loud as I relieved myself. I should seriously go see a doctor. I was too young to be having the bladder of a fifty year old person.

I finished as quickly as I could. I wanted to get back to the movie. I reached back, flushed the toilet, then I stood to dress myself. The toilet cleared quickly, throwing the whole bathroom in sudden silence. Besides the muted sounds of other movies playing nearby, all I could hear was the sound of my struggling with my pants button.

I was mutely aware someone walked into the bathroom. The heels of their shoes were clicking loudly on the floor. I was too busy trying to get my stinkin' button through the hole to care about them.

I heard them walk to the first stall.

BAM!

I jerked at the loud noise, my hands jumping away from my waist. Did... did that person just kick a stall door open? I know some people have a germphobic-thing about bathroom stall doors and didn't want to touch them, but kicking it open like it was goddamn football was a bit much.

This person was not satisfied with the first stall because I heard her take two steps to the side, to the next stall, and-

BAM!

I jumped again. What the fuck was she doing? Looking for spare change?

She moved again. BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

What the fuck, what the fuck, what the _fuck!_ Steadily this girl moved down the line, not pausing, kicking in every door.

I was getting frightened. I didn't know what she wanted, what she was looking for, or what she was going to do once she found it. As she got closer and closer, I made sure my door was indeed locked, and I stepped upon the toilet seat to hide my feet.

I didn't even have my cell phone on me. I left it back with my friends who were watching my stuff.

BAM!

BAM!

BAM!

This person just kicked in the last door. The next one was mine.

I was trembling, my knees knocking into each other. Thank goodness I'd already peed otherwise I'd be wetting myself at this moment. The clicking noises of their heels moved, and now this person was standing in front of my stall. I could see their feet underneath the door

They weren't wearing heels. In front of my stall were two hooves.

I screamed.

"Jesus Christ!" Mindy yelled out, wrenching open my stall. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

I blinked. I stared wildly down at Mindy's feet, gaping when I saw she had her white trainers on, not heels. Definitely not hooves. I climbed down from the toilet seat, pushed past Mindy to see if there was someone out there wearing a costume or something. Mindy and I were alone.

"Are you okay?" Mindy asked, her startled anger turning into concern. "What happened to you?"

There was no way Mindy could've switch out her shoes so quickly. She wouldn't act out such a cruel joke on me either. What the hell just happened? Did I hallucinate the entire thing?

"I'm... fine," I said, swallowing thickly. "Let's get back to the movie."

With a sour expression, I followed Mindy out of the bathroom. As I passed the stalls, my eyes warily looked them over. In the middle of each stall door was the faint impression of a hoof.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off the last time I went to the movies and used the toilet. They were playing some kind of action movie next door and each time there was an explosion, it sounded like it went off right above my head. I never jumped so many times whilst trying to pee.


	31. The treeline

One hundred years ago, my neighborhood was a vast forest, spawning for miles. Today, after decades of development, most of the woods near my home was used only as temporary gaps between neighborhoods, some only about a hundred feet wide. If I wanted, I could cross that gap and get to the other side without having to resort to the main roads.

I wouldn't though. Mosquitos and bugs and spiders. Not worth it.

Though it was kinda nice having a miniature forest as my backyard. There was always plenty of birds to look out for, butterflies to feed, and the occasional deer would graze on my lawn. Sometimes my friends would joke about the Blair Witch project, but I always laughed. Nothing creepy has ever happened.

One early morning as I took my trash can out to the curb, I noticed something standing at the edge of the forest.

From the end of my lawn, there was about a thirty foot unkept grassy gap to the actual tree line. There was something erected in the middle of that small grassy area, like a short street lamp. It wasn't there yesterday.

Curious, once I placed my trash can in its proper area, I started trekking over to see what it was. Maybe someone set up a bird house, or perhaps the college student who lived next door to me was doing an experiment.

I pulled my coat closer to me, feeling the morning chill, my steps getting bigger to avoid the wet, muddy spots.

I stopped.

I was not as far away now, so I had an _idea_ what I was looking at, but I prayed to god I was wrong. Maybe it was a trick of the eye, an optical illusion. Refusing to get any closer, I pulled out my phone. I turned on the camera, held it up and zoomed in.

"Oh my god!" I gasped, wrenching away, cupping a hand over my mouth in horror. Immediately I dialed for 911.

"Hello? Yes, there's a _severed head_ on a spike in my backyard!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The police came, took away the head and the spike it was on. I gave a statement, assuring them I didn't know who the head belonged to. I didn't recognize the poor man.

I refused to be interviewed by the local press. I didn't answer my door when they rung the bell, I ignored the emails and phone calls they sent me.

A general sketch of the man's face was put on the news- I huffed, wondering why they didn't show his _actual_ face, then slapped myself. Of course they weren't going to show his severed head, idiot- and asked if anybody recognized him to come forward.

I thought that was it. That this was just a random act of some crazed individual hyped on PCP or whatever, and I could get on with my life. It didn't help that my mornings were soured every day each time I looked over and saw the fluttering police tape. Already there were footprints all over the place, from kids who wanted morbid pictures of the area. I already had to chase away a few who had the audacity to climb over my fence.

Then one morning, about a month later, as I walked out to my car to grab something, I peered over to the forest edge again.

I expected to see nothing. The remnants of the police tape had all but gone now and I was slowly getting back into my morning routine without worrying there was some psychopath waiting in the shadows with a machete.

There were now two severed heads on spikes, spaced about ten feet between them.

I stayed at a friends house for the next week as the police combed the whole neighborhood and forest for clues.

It was obvious now some shit was going down. Like the poor guy from before, I didn't know who these two individuals were, and nobody else has been able to identify them. Maybe they were runaways, maybe they were homeless. Their bodies haven't been found and their dental and DNA results have yielded nothing.

For extra precaution, a 24 hour watch has been issued for that spot. A police cruiser with two officers stood watch, shifts switching out every couple of hours. I supposed it should make me feel safe.

About two days into the watch, I woke up to the sounds of my neighbor screaming.

Disoriented and still half-asleep, I stumbled out of bed, grabbed the baseball bat I started to keep near my door, and ran outside.

My neighbor Joan was pointing to the forest edge. At first I was confused, because the police cruiser was sitting right there, and surely Joan could talk to them instead of screaming like a goddamn banshee.

When I saw what she saw, I nearly started screaming as well.

Both police officers had their heads severed and stuck on spikes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nobody heard _nothing_. No screams, no sounds of struggle, no guns firing. Both officers were wearing their body cams, but _without the bodies_ , they couldn't get accessed to the footage. The only recording they had was from the cruiser's dash-cam. The video showed the officers getting out of the car by their own power, walking out of frame, and that was it. The indication of light meant this happened right at dawn, just perhaps a few minutes before Joan started screaming.

I wasn't allowed to leave my home.

I couldn't exactly blame the police for thinking I could be suspect, considering all the murders took place next to my home and I heard and saw nothing. But for FUCK'S SAKE, they searched my home and found nothing that could indicate I could somehow commit the murders of FIVE PEOPLE. The sharpest knife in my house was your standard carving knife. I was 5'6, I couldn't take on these men, let alone drag their decapitated bodies and hid them away!

By now the media was going nuts. News vans and reporters were at the murder site all day, hounding every person in the neighborhood with their questions. They weren't allowed to come onto my lawn, but they took pictures of me every time I walked past a window. I had lovely, blue curtains, but I put up thick blankets over the windows to prevent people from looking into my home. It made my house look dark and ominous and I hated it. I cried for an hour on the phone with my mother, telling her what was going on.

When night came, there was now four police cruisers, along with cameras, body armor, and shields at the ready. The reporters stayed too, at least seven vans, taking up all the parking spaces, with their high beams on, ready to catch and see this invisible phantom stalking the woods. I ended up going to bed that night with earplugs on because the noise was impossible to sleep through.

I woke up to silence.

I took off my earplugs expecting to hear the general rumble of activity outside, but nothing. It was a quiet morning and all that could be heard were the birds chirping. Did everyone go home? I quickly slipped on a jacket and a pair of shoes.

I padded out my front door, walking to the side, to see if anything had changed. I was mutely aware the police guard at my front door was gone. The question where he had gone was quickly answered.

Every single one of them was there.

Every. Single. One.

The police officers. The reporters. The camera men. Even some of the rabble crowd who simply wanted to get on tv was there. Over twenty heads, shoved on spikes, at the edge of the woods.

Their mouths were slumped open as if giving off a silent scream.

None of the cameras had been touched. They stood on their tripods, unmolested. The little red light indicating it was recording was still blinking.

I didn't know what compelled me to move, but the next thing I knew I was in front of one of the cameras.

It was your standard digital camera, about ten years, probably owned by one of the common folk. I reached up and stopped the recording.

According to the time stamp, this recording had only been fifteen minutes long.

I looked up briefly at the severed heads, my finger hovering over the play button. Did I really wanted to know what was the fate of these people? Could I live my life without this information?

I pressed play.


	32. The Crack

_Don't step on a crack or else you'll break your mother's back!_

I was stepping on every crack I saw. The road was littered with them because of the current harsh weather. I stomped on them, jumped on them, hopped down the road like a goddamn rabbit because that's how angry I was.

It was stupid, it was childish, but I didn't have any other way to express my anger at my mother.

She read my journal. It was not as if I had left it out in the open for all the world to see. It was on my bookshelf, placed away specifically. She had pulled it out, read it, then proceeded to correct my grammar on certain entries before putting it back.

I live a rather, boring teenage life and my entries were nothing juicy to read about. Yesterday's update was about my enthusiasm over the _tacos_ I had for lunch.

Regardless, it was still a violation of my privacy. So here I was, outside in the freezing cold, stomping down on every crack I saw, kicking stones and muttering angrily to myself.

After an hour or two, I calmed down. Maybe it was time to invest in an online journal. My mom barely knew how to use email, so at least I was confident she wouldn't be able to hack into my accounts.

I was still miffed, so when I came home, I made sure to bang open the door. I kicked off my cold, wet shoes, threw off my jacket in some random spot, and stomped my way into the living room.

... you know, there really should be a warning sign on those nursery rhymes. Sure, nobody took them seriously, but when I was outside, purposefully stomping my feet down on those cracks, I meant every step. I was angry and upset, but had I known about the consequences...

Because I stepped on so many cracks, I guess the universe didn't know how to interpret my message.

So they folded my mother four times, and shelved her neatly next to the DVDs.


	33. The plump dog

"Who's my fat, hairy baby?" I cooed, rubbing my face into my dog's side. " _Who is my fat hairy baby?"_

Lucy, my ten year old chocolate lab, grunted and shifted in her dog bed. When I nuzzled my face into her fur again, she gave off a low groan.

"You're so cute!" My voice was getting more high pitched. The talk was also getting more baby-ish. I couldn't help it, Lucy was so soft and plump. "Who's my fat hairy baby? You are! My fatty-fat, chocolate, delicious little doggy-dog-"

Suddenly Lucy sat up, startling me. I thought she was going to move away, but she faced me, stared straight into my eyes and-

" _Enough_." She hissed.

My mouth dropped.

"I have had _enough_ ," she repeated in a _British_ accent. I got her from a kennel in Kentucky, what the fuck-? "Enough with the baby names, with the cuddling, I am trying to take a nap here. Okay? Okay."

With a huff, she turned back around and laid down.

I didn't know what to say. I sat there, struggling to comprehend what I just heard, debating if it was real or in my head. With a swallow, I hesitantly asked, "Do... do you still want belly rubs?"

Lucy opened one eye to me. She closed it just as quick, then lifted her leg, showing me her dark belly. "Quickly, please," she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by having my own dog in my bed, refusing my snuggles.


	34. The Trick-or-Treater

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Vomit

"Trick or treat!"

I grinned mischievously, "Mmm... I choose trick."

My god, Daniel hated it when I did this. He said I was being unintentionally mean, that I was sucking the fun out of Halloween. I didn't agree with him. It was fun for _me_. I like watching the kid's face as they slowly frowned, letting the question sink into their brain, getting confused and being unsure how to answer.

I wasn't a complete _bastard_. I gave them candy regardless how they answered. I just wonder if there was a creative, talented kid among the rabble. Someone to take on my challenge head on. C'mon, it was Halloween. I was allow to be mischievous.

The doorbell rang. I grabbed my bowl of candy and went to answer it. As soon as I opened the door, I was greeted with a deep, guttural, _"Trick or Treat."_

I stopped, stunned by the Trick-or-treater before me.

The kid was no bigger than chest-high, and as thin as a rail. Unlike the other Trick-or-treaters who wore costumes of Elsa and Iron Man, this kid's costume was obviously homemade. Strips of black material hung from his skinny, skeletal limbs. The mask he wore was paper mache', but it looked unfinished. There was no paint job, no extra pieces of colored paper. The mask was this ugly, grey-ish blob-y thing with two slits for eyes, two small holes for nostrils and a thin, cut slit for the mouth.

I swallowed. _Don't say it,_ I could hear Daniel's voice saying to me in my head. _Don't you dare fucking say it._

"I choose trick."

I regretted it as soon as I said it.

The kid cocked his head, contemplating. He then slowly reached up, grasped the edge of his homemade mask and lifted it up just enough for me to see.

If you asked me today what was it I saw, I wouldn't be able to tell you. My mind blocked it out. I do remember stumbling back, dropping the candy bowl in response. I remember the way fear struck me so hard, so fast, it felt like someone punched me harshly in the gut, twisting my intestines with an iron grip.

I opened my mouth to scream, but instead started vomiting violently. My dinner, all the candy I ate came rushing out, splattering all over myself, the floor, everywhere. "Oh god!" I coughed, digging my heels into the floor to get away from him. "Oh my god!"

The kid slid his mask back on. He bent down, grabbed one of the pieces of candy that was not covered in my filth, (a fucking Jolly Ranchers) nodded to me in thanks and walked away.

I don't celebrate Halloween anymore.


	35. The Forbidden Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Child abuse

There was a room in my house that was forbidden to me.

As a child, I didn't questioned it. It was one of those things like how you never questioned where the milk came from or what the moon really was. It was a constant thing, it didn't need answering.

But as I slowly got older, little things stood out to me. It wasn't used as a guest room. It wasn't dad's study. Neither of my parents ever went inside. When I went outside to get the mail or go to school, I could just barely see into the room through the window.

The room sat upstairs, just a door down from my parents' room. There was nothing particularly different about the closed door. It didn't have a locking door handle. It didn't have a giant STAY OUT sign. For reasons unknown to me, nobody was allowed in it.

"Mom," I asked one day when I was about twelve. "What's in that room?"

"It's nothing, dear," my mom said to me.

"Then why am I not allowed to go in it?"

"Because I said so."

"If it's nothing, then why is it forbidden?"

"Because I said so."

"Oh yeah? I'm going to go up there right now, open the door-"

My mother was like a blur. Just as I was stepping away in a overly comedic stance, she snapped out, grabbed my wrist in bone-crushing grip, and wrenched me closer to her.

"Don't you _dare_ go into that room," she hissed into my face, holding my wrist high above my head, forcing me to stand on my toes. "You are not allowed in there."

I started crying, mostly in fear than pain. My sweet, gentle mother who couldn't even bring herself to kill a harmless spider was practically spitting into my face as she said this. She then let me go, and I scurried away to my room and cried for an hour.

As I got older, I got bitter about it.

It was a fucking room. It was a room in a house I lived in and I had a fucking right to know what was in it. What, was it filled with my parents sex toys? Was it drugs? Did I have an extra sibling and they had him chained up in that room? No matter the theory, none of it made sense. It was a ROOM two doors down from MINE.

In hindsight, I should have waited till my parents left the house before I decided to go into that room. Instead, I stupidly announced, "I'M GOING IN!"

I walked down the hall. I stepped in front of the door.

I heard my parents running to me, rushing to get to me as I reached out, grasped the handle and-

I collapsed.

My knees gave out from underneath me and I fell heavily to the carpeted floor. At first I didn't understand, not until my head turned and I saw my father standing there at the end of the hallway, the smoking gun still in his hand.

_My father had shot me._

The neighbors heard the gunshot and they were the ones who called the police. "We told you not to go into that room!" They screamed while they were put into handcuffs. They didn't care I was in the ambulance. "We told you!"

It would be nearly two weeks till I was able enough to go back to the house. I didn't plan to stay long, only enough to grab a few things from my room.

The whole time I was laying on the ground, bleeding out, neither of my parents entered the forbidden room. As far as I knew, nobody went into the room since I was shot. Not even the blood staining the carpet had been cleaned.

So here I was, standing in front of the forbidden room. The room my parents yelled at me for, threatened me, and nearly killed me for. Exactly what was it on the other side that was so secretive, that they were willing to destroy their own kid for it?

I opened the door.

The hinges creaked loudly from years of disuse. I slid it opened, preparing myself for anything.

For years my mind conjured up endless possibilities what this room contained. Unicorns, maybe. Evidence of aliens? Maybe my parents were Soviet spies and had been pretending to be Americans all these years while gathering classified information. I prepared myself for anything. I didn't expect this.

There was nothing.

Absolutely nothing. The room was empty.

I shook my head, denying it. "No," I sniffled, walking in. There was no furniture, no pictures on the wall, no wall paper, nothing. There wasn't even a closet. The whole room smelled of dust and old air, further evidence this place hadn't been touched in years. I looked out the windows through sun bleached curtains, staring down upon my front yard from an angle I've never seen it before.

"No," I said again. I started touching the walls, feeling around, expecting a bump, a hidden switch, _something_. "No. No. No. No. No. No..."

I fell to my knees, my hands grabbing fistfuls of hair as I sobbed openly. My tears mingled with the dust on the floor.


	36. The Forbidden Room Part B

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had thought of two different endings to this same story. I liked both so I did both.
> 
> Warning: Child abuse.

There was a room in my house that was forbidden to me.

As a child, I didn't questioned it. It was one of those things like how you never questioned where the milk came from or what the moon really was. It was a constant thing, it didn't need answering.

But as I slowly got older, little things stood out to me. It wasn't used as a guest room. It wasn't dad's study. Neither of my parents ever went inside. When I went outside to get the mail or go to school, I could just barely see into the room through the window.

The room sat upstairs, just a door down from my parents' room. There was nothing particularly different about the closed door. It didn't have a locking door handle. It didn't have a giant STAY OUT sign. For reasons unknown to me, nobody was allowed in it.

"Mom," I asked one day when I was about twelve. "What's in that room?"

"It's nothing, dear," my mom said to me.

"Then why am I not allowed to go in it?"

"Because I said so."

"If it's nothing, then why is it forbidden?"

"Because I said so."

"Oh yeah? I'm going to go up there right now, open the door-"

My mother was like a blur. Just as I was stepping away in a overly comedic stance, she snapped out, grabbed my wrist in bone-crushing grip, and wrenched me closer to her.

"Don't you _dare_ go into that room," she hissed into my face, holding my wrist high above my head, forcing me to stand on my toes. "You are not allowed in there."

I started crying, mostly in fear than pain. My sweet, gentle mother who couldn't even bring herself to kill a harmless spider was practically spitting into my face as she said this. She then let me go, and I scurried away to my room and cried for an hour.

As I got older, I got bitter about it.

It was a fucking room. It was a room in a house I lived in and I had a fucking right to know what was in it. What, was it filled with my parents sex toys? Was it drugs? Did I have an extra sibling and they had him chained up in that room? No matter the theory, none of it made sense. It was a ROOM two doors down from MINE.

In hindsight, I should have waited till my parents left the house before I decided to go into that room. Instead, I stupidly announced, "I'M GOING IN!"

I walked down the hall. I stepped in front of the door.

I heard my parents running to me, rushing to get to me as I reached out, grasped the handle and-

I collapsed.

My knees gave out from underneath me and I fell heavily to the carpeted floor. At first I didn't understand, not until my head turned and I saw my father standing there at the end of the hallway, the smoking gun still in his hand.

_My father had shot me._

The neighbors heard the gunshot and they were the ones who called the police. "We told you not to go into that room!" They screamed while they were put into handcuffs. They didn't care I was in the ambulance. "We told you!"

It would be nearly two weeks till I was able enough to go back to the house. I didn't plan to stay long, only enough to grab a few things from my room.

The whole time I was laying on the ground, bleeding out, neither of my parents entered the forbidden room. As far as I knew, nobody went into the room since I was shot. Not even the blood staining the carpet had been cleaned.

So here I was, standing in front of the forbidden room. The room my parents yelled at me for, threatened me, and nearly killed me for. Exactly what was it on the other side that was so secretive, that they were willing to destroy their own kid for it?

I opened the door.

The hinges creaked loudly from years of disuse. I slid it opened, preparing myself for anything.

For years my mind conjured up endless possibilities what this room contained. Unicorns, maybe. Evidence of aliens? Maybe my parents were Soviet spies and had been pretending to be Americans all these years while gathering classified information. I prepared myself for anything. I didn't expect this.

There was nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I didn't mean it was devoid of furniture or pictures, I literally meant _nothing_.

There was no ceiling. No floor. No walls. Though I could barely peek into this room from the outside, there was no window here to be seen. There was no color, no physical form of the house at all. I opened the door and all there was was an endless black void where nothing began and nothing ended.

I stared into eternity, and I went insane.

It was no wonder why parents didn't want me to see this room. Nobody should look into this room. Because the last thing I saw before my mind snapped and collapsed on itself were two pairs of eyes _staring back._


	37. The Ice Cream Man

Enough was enough.

Every single night at eight, this damn ice cream truck came into my neighborhood. It parked right in my street, in front of my apartment, and blasted the song _Greensleeves_. I didn't understand why it came so late at night. By now most families were done with dinner and the kids were already going to bed. Maybe the whole purpose was to attract the local stoners. Heh, that would be funny.

But not even that was true. I have never seen a single customer come to this truck, no matter how many times it has come down this street. It would sit there, ten minutes in idle, playing that stupid song over and over again. After ten minutes and no customers, it would leave, disappearing into the darkness.

Tonight, the truck seemed determined to get a customer. It has sat there for more than ten minutes now, playing the repeating tune louder and louder by the minute. Finally, when I noticed I'd been jerking my head unconsciously to the tune, I decided enough was enough.

I opened my window, stuck my head out, and with one fist raised in the air, I yelled, "HEY-!"

The truck window violently slid open.

The ice cream man eagerly looked out, his eyes scanning the street for the person who called to him. It could have been just the lights of the truck, obscuring his appearance, but I could see the color of his skin was a sickly bruised- _yellow_. His face was elongated, his skin so taunt against his skull, it was as if he didn't have muscle or fat in between his flesh. He had no lips, and the skin around his mouth was pulled back to reveal crooked, dirty teeth.

On top of his blading head he had a paper hat with the company logo on it.

I slowly lowered my fist.

As quietly as I could, I moved back inside my window. I carefully closed it shut, turned off the lights in my room and silently waited for the ice cream man to go away. I suddenly knew why he never got any customers. Maybe everyone else was just like me: we didn't want him to know we were here.

From outside, I heard him sigh in disappointment. "Aw..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had written this for a friend, but the post deleted and I was forced to rewrite everything.


	38. The Grandfather

Now before you judge me, let me explain a few things. My family was not rich. My mother's been wheelchair bound since she was a kid and my father, a racially mixed immigrant, has always had a hard time finding and keeping a job. We didn't own a car, we lived from paycheck to paycheck, so don't blame my parents for doing what they did to keep food on the table. That being said...

For eleven years my parents kept the corpse of my grandfather in our basement in order to keep collecting on his retirement checks.

He died when I was about four, so I don't have many memories of Grandpapa George when he was still alive. I mostly remember him sitting quietly in his chair in the living room, staring out the window. So he wasn't all that different as a corpse, at least in my head. If there was time in my life when he walked and talked, I don't remember.

I don't know what my parents did to keep him from rotting all these years. A week after he died, they kept grandpapa in their bathroom, and when he emerged, his skin was like doll. It was smooth to the touch, almost plastic-y, and if the light hit him strongly enough, he shined.

They set up the basement of our house to look like a guest room. Grandpapa had his own bed, an empty dresser drawer, even a tv and radio was put down there. They placed him in a rocking chair with a blanket draped over his lap. To an outside observer, he probably looked like someone taking a nap.

The basement had the washer and dryer and with my mother in a wheelchair and dad constantly at work, laundry duties were left to me. As soon as I got home from school, I would go down into the basement and start on a load of laundry. While I waited, I would go sit down next to grandpapa and do my homework.

To this day the media hounded me, asking me if having the corpse of my grandfather around for so long was horrifying. Truthfully, I liked having grandpapa there all the time. Sure he didn't talk back, but he also didn't judge, didn't say the wrong things, and was always there when I needed him. He was a constant, steady presence in my life when others were not.

He was there when I needed to rant about school. He was there when my best friend Jenna moved away and I cried about it for days. I told him things I have never told anyone else. Doing the laundry was my favorite part of the day because I was allowed to be me, to speak my mind to someone I knew would never spill my secrets.

It was my fault we were caught. My parents didn't discourage me when I talked of grandpapa like he was still around. I think they believed this was the best way to keep me from being traumatized and confused.

When I was sixteen, I brought my boyfriend over and -stupidly- I thought it was a good idea to take him down to the basement to have him meet grandpapa.

The police were quickly called and things basically went downhill from there. Though no violence was involved, because my parents committed fraud for so long, both of them were sent to jail. My disabled mother got the shorter sentence but I was still forced to live with a friend over the next two years.

As for grandpapa, after months of being in police 'storage', the state had his body cremated as per instructions written in his will.

I now go to college, living in a small apartment off campus. I have a roommate, but she's taking more courses than she can handle and practically lives at the library. I don't thnk I've seen her in two weeks now.

I tried keeping a journal, though it's not the same. I tried talking to a therapist, but having some unknown person asking me questions felt invasive. Maybe I was more broken than I thought.

I keep a single picture of grandpapa with me. I've not shown it to anyone because it was of him in his rocking chair, his eyes closed and his skin slightly shiny. They wouldn't understand.

I miss my grandpapa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based off real life. People have done this.


	39. The Wait

The metro on Saturday mornings were always isolated and quiet. The usual hustle and bustle of morning commute wasn't here, leaving my mother and I the only ones waiting. It was actually kind of nice, if a bit lonely. Every step we made echoed loudly against the walls, our conversation sounded like we were yelling instead of speaking in normal tones. It was cool, yet eerily at the same time.

I kept staring down the long tube, willing for the train to emerge from the descending darkness. Left to right, both sides looked the same. It was like these tunnels could go on forever.

My mother and I continued waiting, getting a bit bored. Suddenly, without prompt, I casually said, " _Slenderman_."

"God dammit," my mother hissed. She hated that internet monster. "You need to stop with that shit."

I giggled. "It's the perfect place for him to show up. We're alone, and this place already has an other-worldly feel to it. I wouldn't be surprise if he does pop out of nowhere."

Mom made a face. "Be careful what you wish for."

We continued to wait. By now my enthusiasm of this place had filtered away, leaving me annoyed, wondering when our freakin' train was coming. Not even on slow days the train was this late. I checked my watch to see how long we've been waiting.

I frowned. The second hand stopped moving. I tapped the glass, brought my watch up to my ear and sighed. "Mom, my watched died. What time is it?"

I looked up to my mother. Her head was turned, giving me a full view of her curled, black locks, obscuring her face. She said nothing.

Thinking she was annoyed because I brought up the slenderman, I checked the time on my phone. 9:45. It hadn't been that long. I spent a few minutes deleting old text messages and pictures. When I got bored of that, I checked the time again.

It was still 9:45.

"I think the time on my phone is broken as well," I said. This was fucking annoying. "Mom, what time is it?"

Mom still had her head turned away from me. It appeared she was looking down the tunnel, waiting for the train to arrive. I couldn't tell because her hair was still in the way.

"Mom," I said again, louder. "Mom, c'mon, what time is it?"

She continued to ignore me.

I reached out to grab her arm, to physically drag her wrist over so I could see her watch.

I jumped when she moved suddenly, stepping out of my reach. She continued to walk away, still refusing to talk to me. I didn't understand where she was going. There were no bathrooms down here, no gift shops. She was going towards the stairs, her back still to me.

"Where're you going?" I asked, walking after her. "The train could come at any moment."

She continued to ignore me.

"Mom," I said. "MOM."

For reasons unknown to me, she suddenly took off running.

I was stunned. My mother was overweight. She also had a bum knee after a nasty accident when she was playing volleyball back in high school. Sometimes standing was too much for her. There was no way she could run like _that_.

"MOM!" I yelled out, taking off after her. What was going on, why was she acting like this? This was going too far, even as a joke to punish me. "MOM!"

She got to the stairs and ran up them like they were nothing, taking four steps at a time. "MOM! MOM, PLEASE STOP! MOM!"

I couldn't get up the stairs that fast. By the time I reached the top step, huffing and gasping for air, my mother was nowhere in sight.

This happened two hours ago.

At least I think this was two hours ago. My watch and phone still refused to work.

At some point I walked back down the stairs, deciding to wait for my mother to come back. This had to be some kind of sick joke and I was not going to fall for it. Even as frustrated tears ran down my face, even as the silence and isolation continued to reign on, I refuse to indulge in this prank. I was going to wait for the train and my mother, even if I had to wait forever.

I sniffled, and checked the time again. It was still 9:45.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based off of a dream I had last night.


	40. The news lapse

When you live in the country side, you will see the same thing over and over again. The large, heavy farm equipment, rogue animals that seemingly come out of nowhere, and the fields. Lots and lots of large empty fields.

During the summer when the crops were harvested, ninety precent of the time these fields looked empty. I could easily see a mile straight ahead without trying when the crops were gone. In some ways it was really cool. Other times it felt so desolate and empty. In this place, you had to make your own entertainment.

For example, the Sitters family had a single, solitary scarecrow on their farm. Other farms had six or seven spaced out across the fields to keep the crows and other animals from coming in, but they only had the one. They placed him in the middle of their farm, and it more or less did its job. What made their scarecrow stand out from all the others was, the Sitters liked to dress it up in various clothing every other week.

Sometimes the scarecrow was wearing a fluffy, pink dress which danced and swayed in the wind. Other times it wore a fancy tuxedo or a business suit or a school uniform. During the holidays, they dressed it up like Santa Clause or the Easter Bunny. It's really cool to drive past the farm and see Batman out in the field, protecting the crops.

I greatly enjoyed the effort the Sitters put into changing their scarecrow's look every week. Every time I walked past their field and see their fashionable scarecrow, I would stop and wave.

Eventually like all things, I got older and left home for college. Between work and school and the million little things I never foresaw when it came to being a newly independent adult, my calls home were not as frequent as I liked. So much time was spent on school, I stopped using Facebook and Twitter and became a social recluse. It got so bad, I didn't learn of a major earthquake hitting Australia till nearly two weeks later. I felt awful for tuning out the world, but I couldn't really blame myself. I was busy with my own life.

Around Thanksgiving break was when my workload finally teetered off. I still had a million and one things to worry about, but at least I could give myself more than fifteen minutes to call my parents.

We talked of the usual things, but my end of the conversation was limited. No, I didn't see the new Tom Cruise movie because I was busy with school. No, I am not following the current presidential debate, I am busy with school. When asked if I was coming down for Thanksgiving, I said, "Ugh, I feel like a broken record. I don't know, I think I need to stay up here to finish a few things. But send me pics, okay? I wanna see the turkey. Oh, could you also send me a pic of the Sitter's current scarecrow? I wonder if they'll out-do the pilgrim design from last year."

My parents were quiet on the other end.

"Hello?" I asked. Did the call drop?

"You didn't hear?" My mother said in a strained voice.

"No, hear what?"

From the background my dad muttered, "Don't tell her. It'll only upset her."

"What happened? Did Mr. Sitters die or something?"

There was another pause. Then my mother said, "Yes, dear. Mr. Sitters died a few months ago. Tragic really."

I literally pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it, frowning. That was so clearly a lie, I was almost insulted my mother thought that could fool me.

We talked for a few more minutes, mostly focusing on my cousin's upcoming wedding. Once I said my goodbyes, I immediately went on the internet and googled the Sitter's farm. I expected only for my town's local newspaper to pop up. Instead, I got major news sites from all across the world. I didn't have to click any of the links; all of the bolded headlines told me the whole story.

OVER 400 BODIES FOUND ON OHIO FARM

FARMER PARALYZED VICTIMS BY CUTTING SPINAL CORDS

VICTIMS WERE TOURISTS

PROPPED THEIR BODIES UP LIKE SCARECROWS

VICTIMS DIED OF EXPOSURE, AUTOPSIES SAY

DRESSED UP THE BODIES IN VARIOUS COSTUMES

I sat there at my computer, staring. I didn't move. I barely breathed. All I could think about was the fact that none of these people were dead when they were stuck upon on that pole. They were alive, paralyzed, unable to move or scream or signal for help.

And I _waved_ to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on my true life, in which I missed major world events because I'd been so busy with uni. (No, my neighbors were not serial killers.... I think.)


	41. The Neighbors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired because of the odd sentence structure from my last author's note. =P
> 
> Warning for gore and cannibalism.

My next door neighbors, the Morrisons, were arrested yesterday for murdering over a dozen people.

I had no idea, I swear. They were the sweetest people in the world, they never gave cause for me to suspect. Nobody else in the neighborhood suspected either. I said the same thing over and over again to the police, to the press, and to my family. Please, I had no _idea_.

I watched from my second story window as police went in and brought out body bag after body bag from the Morrison's basement. After the body bags were brought out, they pulled out barrel after barrel, and then finally, they lugged out an ice cooler.

From what I heard the Morrisons had sound proofed their basement, which explained why nobody ever heard their... activities. A literal murder house in my neighborhood.

The press hounded us for weeks, unable to comprehend how nobody in the neighborhood ever noticed a pair of serial killers living right next door. Sometimes I wanted to scream at these people, hit them, and tell them I had nothing to do with the murders. I had nothing to contribute to the crimes, to the police, no evidence to turn over, nothing to help bridge this gap.

But I never said that because that would be lying.

According to a few sources on the internet, a good deal of the bodies were missing limbs and the police had no idea where the Morrisons had disposed of them.

When I read this I swallowed wetly, feeling nausea rising in my stomach. I had an idea what may have happened to those limbs, but I couldn't bring myself to tell the police my theory. As far as I knew, nobody else in the neighborhood told the police either. Horrified into solidarity, I guess. I just wonder which one of us will finally crack. Would they arrest us too? How harsh a punishment was it to withhold evidence?

Once of us was going have to tell, because that BBQ we all brought home from the Morrison's mid-summer bash was going to rot soon.


	42. The Heat

I once heard sitting on a cold toilet seat was bad, but sitting on a warm one was worse.

The toilet seat was warm this morning.

I live alone.


	43. The Mime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written as a Halloween treat for branwyn.
> 
> Warning: Gore and body horror

I have never seen a mime in real life, only on tv. I wondered how many things were out there I have never experienced, but I only knew of their existence simply from watching it on the screen. Of course, I never had sex before, but that was besides the point.

Today, there was a mime in the park.

He was dressed in the typical costume of a mime. He had a black and white striped shirt, black pants with shoes, painted his face with the same monochrome colors, and had a tiny French buret on his head. He even wore white gloves.

He was surrounded by a small crowd, mostly parents with their small children. I joined them as the mime was in the middle of an act. He was doing that bit where he pretended a balloon was impossible to push or pull.

He was doing a great job. He gritted his teeth, dug his feet into the concrete, doing his best to push that balloon. He suddenly made the balloon drop like it weighed a hundred pounds and he went with it, puffing out his cheeks in effort to hold it up. The kids squealed and clapped. I joined in on their enthusiasm. This was really cool.

Once he was done with that act, he popped the balloon, tossed the remains aside and started to do the famous 'trapped in a box' bit. I decided I was only going to watch this last act and go. I still had other errands to finish.

The mime pressed his hands along the invisible wall, moving his body along. He continued for a few feet, reached out, and suddenly his hand struck another invisible wall.

His facial expression changed.

Before, he had a dramatic, wide-eyed cartoon look on. He dropped that look immediately and appeared stunned. He was staring out at his hand as it continued to touch the invisible wall. The kids were still clapping, but I and the other adults saw his shift in body language.

He jerked suddenly, grasping the top of his head in surprise. He looked up and reached out, his hand touching the invisible roof. His hand moved down like the ceiling was descending upon him.

He looked to us, the audience, and there was fear in his eyes. He was talking, moving his mouth, but nothing came out. The ceiling was still coming down.

The woman next to me said, "This is getting weird..."

Nobody moved to help him. We were all shifting uncomfortably, unsure what to do. For an act, he was really going all out. Even the kids stopped clapping.

His hands showed how the walls were closing in all around him. He was forced to his knees, and he was still staring out at us, yelling now, crying, and still he was silent to our ears.

After a moment of hesitation, I decided to step forward to help. I was sure I was going to be made fun of. _It was all an act,_ I kept telling myself. He created a scene that looked so realistic he tricked a group of adults to believe him.

He was as small as he could make himself be. I walked up to him, still believing he was going to jump out at me. I reached down and the moment my hand should've touched his back, he gave out one final silent cry and-

When you squish a bug, it flattens because its guts still had someplace to escape out of. This was different.

The mime _imploded_. First we could still see his body, and in the next instance it was like a chunky, blood-filled balloon exploded.

I fell backwards and everyone started screaming. Parents grabbed their children, covering their eyes while the rest of us continued to stare on in horror. I should've been covered in the mime's guts but everything was still trapped inside the invisible box.

It kept getting smaller and smaller.

One woman was wailing behind me. In my peripheral I saw one man drop to his knees to vomit in the grass. I didn't blink. I didn't look away until the invisible, red coated box was only the size of a playing marble. The stinging of my eyes forced me to blink.

When I opened them, there was nothing there. The box had shrunk itself out of existence.


End file.
